


33rd

by gengarchan



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Drugs, Eventual Smut, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 18:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11213910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gengarchan/pseuds/gengarchan
Summary: Bokuto leads a ruthless Tokyo gang and Kuroo's looks could kill. Snakes get involved.This is an excuse to write Bokuroo bloody, dangerous, and majorly into each other.





	33rd

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. I was supposed to write something fluffy for my favs but I am a perpetual edgelord. Please heed the tags because Bokuto's pretty good with a bat. 
> 
> MOOD MUSIC:  
> GOD. - Kendrick Lamar  
> Legend Has It - Run the Jewels  
> We Right Here - DMX  
> All Night - Chance the Rapper  
> Hades (Original Mix) - SonicC

Despite the controversy surrounding the debate of comparing metal bats to wooden ones, there has been very minimal scientific research done on the topic. 

 

It can be argued that wooden bats offer more responsiveness than metal bats. This responsiveness creates better hitters by forcing them to become acquainted with the feedback of the hit itself. A better approach to the ball achieved through complete comprehension. 

 

Wooden bats may also improve the hitter’s form by being properly weighed and balanced. With a tendency to produce a more golf-like swing, the lightness of metal bats may backfire on the hitter. 

 

However, evidence has pointed to aluminum bats yielding a faster ball speed. 

 

Not that Bokuto cares much about ball speeds and bat responsiveness. 

 

These are just a few facts he had come across while skimming through one of Keiji’s old baseball magazines. He had apparently played in high school, figured that Bokuto would have a better use for them than he would. 

 

Like most every instance, Keiji was at least a little bit right. 

 

“Fun fact,” Bokuto breathes through his exertion, “your head hit the concrete faster than it would have if I had been using a wooden bat.” 

 

The chance that the poor sap can hear anything beyond the flood of blood in his ears is slim, but it’s still there so Bokuto’s not just gonna let the last thing he hears be the squelching of his own parietal lobe or whatever sound a skull shard makes when it lodges into tissue. 

 

Athletic equipment trivia was that bit of sunshine to help get through it. 

 

It— getting your face crushed into pavement with vigor sans grace. 

 

Metal bats don’t splitter, either.

 

There’s another swing and the impact isn’t as wet as Bokuto anticipated it would be. It cracks thunderous and he realizes that he’s swung a bit too low. Broke some teeth in the process. 

 

“Ah, missed his nose.” And he thinks about identifying dead people with dental records and stuff— something Konoha was talking about while they played a game of poker in an overpriced hotel— and he wonders if specialists would still be able to tell who he fucked up and how badly. 

 

Bokuto hopes. 

 

“Dirty snakes. What a pain.” Another hard swing to connect with the last of the skull that had managed to keep itself in one piece. The sound’s good. The feel’s even better. “Hey, hey, now that was top notch!” 

 

Wiping away the red that splattered onto his chin and cheek, Bokuto turns to the figure huddled at the end of the alleyway— golden eyes reflecting off golden eyes. 

 

They’re not like Bokuto’s though— not feverish or wild or so alive it threatens to shred. They’re cat-like. Scared, and if he was an actual cat Bokuto could imagine his spine curling and his hair standing up like the strays’ do when they think you’re about to take their scraps.

 

_Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur._ Finds himself humming along to the tune that swims through his head. 

 

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. I don’t go after kids.” 

 

The smile, despite the rusty residue staining his skin and the hunk of murder resting on his shoulder, is genuine. Friendly in a way that stutters between unnerving and inviting. 

 

“Nice hair.” 

 

Additionally, metal bats are much easier to clean. 

 

— 

 

They’re at this low-cut, high-end club somewhere in Shibuya. The VIP section is spacious and it’s clearly been done up to impress the current occupiers— new leather couches to drape themselves on and expensive platters of onigiriand crispy pork belly to be devoured. Bokuto’s flattered by the generous bottle service even if he doesn’t drink, and he’s sure the rest of his companions are making good use of it. 

 

It’s apparent in the way Komi slurs out “I know a guy in New Mexico, you know?” once Bokuto takes a snuff of the dusty lines cut on the oakwood coffee table. **Euphoria is overrated** he chants internally, basking in the smoke his nerves emit as they fry. 

 

On a scale of melting into the floor to quantum leaping to the year 3004, he’s settled on a buzzing middle ground. Somewhere between high and wired and all that matters is that he can maintain this perpetual up. 

 

Keiji’s stuffing his face with rice balls and Bokuto barks a laugh, stinging the younger’s back with a hard clap and it makes him choke. 

 

“Akaaaaaashi! We did good today, huh?” 

 

After some attempts to suck in some air and drunken chiding from Sarukui, Keiji replies with a steady “Yes, Bokuto-san. But I think—“ 

 

“And the way I smashed that guy’s teeth against the sidewalk after he tried to grab at you? Wasn’t that so totally cool? I wanted to kill him, you know? I was so close! But he’s probably still squirming on the side of the street, bleeding and shit.” 

 

Bokuto’s memory is technicolor high definition— vivid in ways that were unworldly. It’s like he’s reliving it, but Keiji’s got a hand on his shoulder as to stop him from staining the extravagant room with blood and guts. 

 

There’s an unspoken **maybe you should lay off the stuff** behind Keiji’s lips, but it remains suspended because they’ve had the hundreds of versions of the conversation with the same result. 

 

Kept him up and at it. Besides, he wasn’t gonna lose to some gutter glitter.

 

And maybe Bokuto had a point. New Mexico blow was the fifth or sixth thing on the list of things that could kill them in excess. 

 

“Everyone enjoy this victory! We’re the best gang Tokyo has ever seen,” Bokuto boasts with nothing but bright confidence and toothy grin. The rest of Fukurodani agree in cheers— some enhanced and some weakened by the alcohol sloshing in their chests. 

 

Onaga strides across the room from his post at the door, looks between his boss and his most trusted right hand man, settles on leaning into Keiji’s ear to whisper. 

 

“Someone wants to speak to boss.” 

 

“Business?” 

 

“Yeah, but there’s something else to it.” 

 

“What do you mean?” 

 

A pause, as if Onaga is trying to decipher hieroglyphics. 

 

“He says he needs to thank boss for something.” 

 

Now both of them are silent. 

 

“Have you searched him?” 

 

“Unarmed. I know you say I’m a little too trusting sometimes, but Keiji. He seems genuine. Really genuine. Doesn’t seem the type to be normally, but he is right now.” 

 

“… Bring him in. But keep an eye on him. Shoot on my signal. Don’t hesitate.” 

 

Bokuto’s on his fifth skewer of meat when Onaga announces that he’s got a visitor of some sorts, wonders briefly if the club has sent some pieces of other kinds of meat to take home. Enticing, but not when he’s floating in glass like he is now. Flesh is too solid and it feels like he’ll vibrate right through the blood and muscle. 

 

The arrangement of flesh and blood and muscle that walks through the door, though, is nothing short of appetizing. 

 

Tall and lithe, but strong. Bokuto can tell by the way skin ripples under leather pants and he can’t help but stare at the sculpted middle presented before him— torso bare except for the gaudy black fur coat draped around sturdy shoulders.

 

Modelesque— he thinks that’s the word Keiji used to describe someone beautiful they had seen on the streets once. 

 

The visitor’s bedhead is equal parts outrageous and suggestive and it makes Bokuto flash a dangerous smile. 

 

“Bokuto Koutarou. Thank you for having me.” It’s all silk and honey, a purr to match narrow hazel eyes. Lynx. 

 

“Glad you’ve heard of me.” Makes his chest puff out a little, knowing that people know him. The fearsome leader of Fukurodani. Giving new meaning to a bird of prey with a metal bat and loyal following. 

 

As if to further stroke his ego, the panther continues with a hum. “Who hasn’t? Fukurodani practically owns Tokyo.” 

 

That perks Bokuto up immediately, makes Keiji squint. 

 

“State your business,” the second-in-command cuts. Bokuto deflates.

 

“Ah, right. How rude of me.” He clears his throat before continuing, hands placed on his narrow hips. “Kuroo Tetsurou, head of Nekoma. I’ve come to thank Bokuto-san for an act of kindness.” 

 

**Nekoma** ripples through the room, gives the gang whiplash from how quick they turn to get a look at the new company. Alleycats. Not direct affiliates with gangsters but they dealt to them. Drugs mostly. Skin usually. They were infamous for lounging on the comfy throne of neutrality, free to curl their tail around whoever fed them amply.

 

Not only Nekoma, but Kuroo Tetsurou of Nekoma. The black cat of Tokyo— elusive as he was alluring. Fucked, drugged, and pummeled his way to the top, picked Nekmoa off its feet and polished strays into purebreds. Reminded everyone that even kittens had claws. 

 

The stunning appearance and masterful strum could have only been expected.

 

“Act of kindness?” The phrase makes Bokuto’s head tilt, confusion obvious. Kindness wasn’t exactly part of Fukurodani’s repertoire. 

 

“A few nights ago you helped one of my kittens out of a rather… troublesome situation. At least, he thinks it was you. There’s not a lot of people in Tokyo who sharpen their teeth and carry a metal bat around.” An amused smile curls on Kuroo’s face then. “I have to say, I wish I was there to see you kill that snake. They’ve been slithering too close for comfort.” 

 

The night comes back to Bokuto immediately and a laugh bubbles out of him then, fond of the image of a pavement painted with skull. Nohebi had beenperpetual thorn in Fukurodani’s side. Stubborn in the way they refused to back down and held grudges, more akin to cockroaches in the way they crawled through Tokyo cities and stayed alive no matter how many times you crush them under a steel-toed boot. 

 

“I thought Nekoma didn’t play favorites.” Keiji was quick to retort. 

 

Kuroo clicked his tongue and Bokuto spots a piercing in the soft pink flesh. Wonders how it feels against skin. 

 

“Oh, we don’t, baby bird. But we have standards. And we have gratitude.” His eyes fall on Bokuto, surveying platinum blonde and a broad build as he ignores the way the pet name makes Keiji’s eyebrows furrow. 

 

The gang leader thinks about the alleycats he encounters during runs or nightly walks and how they only liked affection if they meowed and rubbed for it. Petting them on your own accord got you scratched and bit and bloody. 

 

“Where is he? That pudding head kid? The one who was in the alley.” Kitten was what Kuroo called him, which was fitting. He was small and darted away like one when Bokuto had tried to strike up a conversation after the ordeal. 

 

“Kenma’s a bit shy around people. Clubs aren’t exactly his scene,” and he takes time to survey the room, winking at Konoha when he catches him staring. “But I’ll introduce him some other time.” 

 

Assuming there was going to be another time was ballsy and Bokuto would be lying if he said he didn’t find appeasing— the confidence of it all. “So what do you have for me? To thank me for being so great?” His tone borders ecstatic. He was never good at concealing his emotions. 

 

A black card is slipped from the waistband of his impossibly tight pants, held between two long fingers as he juts his hip out just enough to make Bokuto swallow. “My card. I will come running if you call.” With all the grace expected out of his namesake, Kuroo places it on the table in front of him. 

 

Midnight. When Bokuto finds his mind the most restless, when the night is the darkest, and now, where Kuroo’s numbers are engraved. His hand reaches out for the card as if there’s no other option. 

 

“I would appreciate the opportunity to thank you properly on behalf of Nekoma. We are all at your service, Bokuto sa-“ 

 

Bokuto holds his hand up, and Kuroo shuts his pretty mouth. 

 

“Just Bokuto is fine. We’re friends now, no need for the formalities.” 

 

Friends— Kuroo’s lips twitch a little at the word and Bokuto notices. 

 

“Bokuto,” the name slides on his tongue (and that piercing, _shit_ ) like butter. “Nekoma is at your feet. Call on us whenever you feel you need us. And, once again, thank you.” It’s coupled with a bow, an act of genuine humility that’s ill-fitting and makes Bokuto grimace. 

 

“You’re welcome. Anything else?” Almost childish in his impatience. But Bokuto knows better. Kuroo wasn’t going to give him anything more tonight. Nekoma valued their dignity. 

 

“No, I’ll leave you all to your… festivities. I look forward to your call, Bokuto.” His voice dances, pushes and presses and sways. 

 

Shamelessly, Bokuto watches Kuroo leave, mesmerized by thick thighs and legs for days. 

 

He’d always been a sucker for everything Kuroo sported and if that wasn’t unfair then he must not understand the meaning of the word.

 

It takes a while for someone to break the silence Kuroo’s leaving placed on the room.

 

“Good going, boss. Damn,” is what Komi breathes as he cuts another line or two to show his full appreciation for the gift Bokuto had obliviously bestowed upon them. 

 

After all, killing a Nohebi was in their own interest. Bokuto hadn’t even noticed the kid till the adrenaline had rolled out of his throat.

 

The Nekoma leader had left but everyone was still inhaling his vapors— sensuality personified. 

 

And they had him at their feet. Had him and _more_. 

 

“I am the best, aren’t I?” 

 

His gang agrees, and, despite some obvious apprehensions, even Akaashi spares a nod.

**Author's Note:**

> kuroo @ akaashi: if you don't fuck with me its cuz you broke or you uhgalee 
> 
> spoiler i wrote this just so i can make kuroo quote cardi b 
> 
> next chapter will have more relationship development and stuff!! this was 49549589% plot and i apologize if it was slow.


End file.
